One Hundred
by cactusnell
Summary: This is my one-hundredth story! I didn't think I'd make it. Sherlolly, of course. Sherlock counts a particular set of events in his life.


New York City has often been called the city that doesn't sleep, but London could certainly give it a run for its money. There was always traffic, and lights, no matter the time of day, especially in this central part of the city where Sherlock Holmes lived, and where St. Bart's hospital was located. It was just about three miles from his flat to the hospital where Dr. Molly Hooper worked in the basement morgue/path lab. The detective left his flat at 221b Baker Street just before eleven o'clock in the evening, knowing that he could walk the distance to the hospital and arrive just as the pathologist was preparing to end her shift at midnight. The chill in the night air was bracing, and he knew it would help keep him alert, and his mind clear. He had some thinking to do.

He had known Molly Hooper for almost seven years, and had a hard time remembering what his life would be like without her. She had become a welcome fixture, like his violin and Billy the Skull, but so much more. Not even John Watson, his best friend, understood and tolerated his foibles as well as the tiny woman who cut up corpses for a living. He smiled at the thought.

Most people would believe that the first time that Sherlock Holmes had kissed Molly Hopper was that terrible Christmas, when he had eviscerated her emotionally over a daintily wrapped Christmas package. Everyone was amazed when he apologized, because Sherlock did not apologize, ever. They had been even more dumbfounded when he stooped to plant a kiss on her cheek. But Molly was much more surprised by the apology, for the kiss was nothing new. In fact, it was the twenty-third time, by her count, that the detective had planted one in the vicinity of her face. He often used a small kiss to manipulate her into supplying him with assistance, body parts, data. etc. He would smile at her cajolingly, and plant a kiss on her forehead. Sometime he would go as far a pat her on the head, like a child or a beloved pet, who had done well. Not being a dummy, his Molly, of course, knew exactly what he was doing, but she merely smiled sweetly, and took whatever crumb of affection, false or not, that he offered. Of course, he never used such blatantly obvious tactics in front of John, who, he was sure, would not approve. He thought of all these kisses as he walked along Marylebone Road and through Regent's Park, still heading toward the hospital.

As the detective turned right onto Cleveland Street, he thought of the thirty-fifth time he had kissed Molly, shortly after he told her that she did, indeed, matter, that he trusted her, and that he thought that he was going to die. As they completed their preparations to fake his death, he leaned over to place a gentle kiss on her cheek, but this time he hoped that she could tell that the smile was more sincere, and sad, than cajoling. For the first time, Molly felt that there may, in fact, be some vestige of affection behind the gesture, and she would, remember this kiss as a turning point.

As the detective headed down Newman Street, the next kiss came to mind. This one was simple and sad, as he brushed her forehead lightly with his lips, and said good-bye, soon to be whisked away in Mycroft's car. He was heading for the continent, to demolish what was left of Moriarty's network, and had no idea when, or even if, he would return. He remembered Molly reaching up to touch his cheek, and telling him to take care of himself, then smiling at him as he walked away. He had told her to be happy, to get on with her life, as he walked through the door.

The thirty-seventh kiss, he was sure, Molly had no idea had even happened. He had been in London, very briefly, being debriefed by his brother regarding his progress, when he was informed that his pathologist had been rushed into surgery. Nothing serious, just an appendectomy. But he couldn't resist seeing her, making sure she was okay. Mycroft had him snuck into the recovery room, in violation of every rule of common sense and hospital policy. He could only stay for a brief moment, before she had actually awoken from the anaesthesia. He clutched her small hand in his much larger one, brought it to his lips, and planted a delicate kiss on the back of it. He left just as her eyes started to flutter open, firmly believing that she would think she had been dreaming.

But this one visit had whetted his appetite for more, and he then took to returning to London, occasionally, during his campaign to rid the world of Moriarty's minions, and always found his way to her flat. Some visits would last minutes, some hours. One was overnight. He always ended each visitation with a peck on the cheek, or the forehead. The action became almost automatic and expected, but this did not diminish the pleasure he felt as he saw the smile that each small kiss brought to her face.

As he turned left onto Oxford Street, he was thinking about kiss number fifty-one, which had occurred once he had returned to London for good. He had stood behind her as she puttered about in her locker at St. Bart's at the end of her shift. When she noticed him in her mirror, she turned. He had wanted to say something, something more than he eventually managed to get out of his mouth, but was taken aback by the small diamond on her ring finger. Damn Mycroft! He had not informed him about this. So, after a brief statement about his reunion with John, he leaned in, kissed her on her cheek, and left. But he wasn't smiling.

Things had been a bit uneasy between them after that. He had invited her out for a day of case work, and they had a brief discussion about how she couldn't really do that anymore. He had understood, wished her happiness, and, once again, leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. This one, the fifty-second, felt even sadder than his previous good-bye.

Sherlock now turned left onto High Holburn and continued onto St. Bart's and Molly, thinking about kisses numbered fifty-three through sixty-four. These he considered nothing more than social niceties, little pecks on the cheek or forehead, socially acceptable between friends of the opposite sex, with no overtones of anything else. Molly was engaged, and supposedly happily so. He greeted her, or sometimes parted from her, with a smile and a peck. Nothing more. But she still smiled on these occasions, and he still liked that.

Kiss number sixty-five he recalled vividly. It occurred at John and Mary's wedding. He had left the festivities early, after making his speech and solving a murder. Molly had been wearing a vivid yellow dress, and looked like a breath of spring. They had not even danced together once, her time being occupied by her "meat dagger' of a fiance, Tom. Sherlock had snickered a bit when she stabbed the dullard with a fork. It had been the highpoint of the day! And as he made his way outside, shrugging into his Belstaff, Molly had hurried to follow him. Seeing the look on his face, she made no attempt to plead with him to stay, merely looked up at him sadly. He touched her face, and bent to kiss her head gently. Then turned and left, without looking back.

Shortly after came that dreadful period with nary a kiss nor a kind word. He had fallen off the wagon, reverting to the use of drugs. There were no gentle kisses, but ungentle slaps, administered by the pathologist to his face. He had taken up with a fake girlfriend, albeit for a case, just as Molly had ended her unfortunate engagement. His timing was horrendous. But he had to deal with a vicious blackmailer who was threatening the life and happiness of his best friends. When he had been shot, and almost died, he had seen Molly in his mind palace. It was she who had helped him live, just as she had helped him in reality. But there were no kisses, real or imaginary, only more slaps. The count had stopped abruptly at sixty-five.

Number sixty-six was a good one, a happy one, although the times leading up to it were certainly not happy. Sherlock had murdered a man. In cold blood. He had put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger, thus ending the continuing threat to John and Mary Watson. But the powers that be could not let it end thus, and the detective was compelled by circumstances to submit to to an exile, sure to end in his death in about six months, according to Mycroft Holmes. But Mycroft, who could reasonably be considered the more clever of the Holmes brothers, had concocted an escape plan, and Sherlock's exile had ended within four minutes of its start. His first stop had been Molly's flat, to reassure her that she was in no danger from a resurrected Moriarty. He held her closely, and planted kiss number sixty-six on the top of her head as she leaned into his chest. Kiss number sixty-seven followed closely, as he took his leave to give the same reassurances to John and Mary, hopefully without the added embrace and kisses!

Still walking up High Holburn and turning onto Giltspur Street, Sherlock saw St. Bart's loom into view, as he reviewed kisses number sixty-eight through ninety-nine. He remembered each one of them, as he remembered all of their predecessors. Molly and he had become closer than ever, she having taken over, to a large extent, John's duties as a partner when he needed one. He often kissed her as a greeting, and usually did so as he took his leave. He had no qualms about doing so in front of John, or Mary, or even Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson. They had grown quite used to the sight by this time, and no longer teased him about it. Molly still smiled when he did so. She always smiled, as did he.

As he entered the basement of St. Bart's, Sherlock walked toward the morgue with a determination in his stride, fingering a small velvet box which he carried in his pocket. He definitely had something special in mind for their one-hundredth kiss, even if his Molly had lost count long ago. He walked through the door of the morgue calling her name, and Molly left her office, shrugging into her coat.

"Sherlock, I didn't expect you this time of night. Is there a problem? Do you need…"

But she was silenced as the tall man reached for her, pulled her into his arms, and administered the one-hundredth kiss. Not a brush on the cheek, or a peck on the forehead, either, but a full-on, lip crushing, passionate, life-changing osculatory experience, which was only halted when the need for air became pressing.

"Molly, I'd thought I'd do something special for our…"

"One hundredth kiss?"

"I thought you had given up counting, Molly!"

"I never give up on anything, Sherlock. Least of all you!" She smiled up at him, teasing. "But you're not going to put me through another ninety-nine of those rather frustration-inducing little pecks before we move on to something else, are you?"

Sherlock Holmes looked down at the small woman with the big brown eyes, and said seductively, "Not at all, love. Wait until you see what I have planned for one hundred and one," but he then gave her another bruising kiss. "Maybe one hundred and two!" he corrected himself as he fingered the velvet ring box once again. "Or three! Oh, bloody hell, maybe we should give up counting, now, and just get on with it!"

"We could start counting something else, Sherlock," Molly whispered huskily as she stepped up on her toes and pulled him closer. "And the sooner we start, the better!"


End file.
